Blind Assassin (127 page)

“How do you know?”

“I got the telegram,” I said. “They sent it to me. He listed me as next of kin.” Even then I could have changed course; I could have said,
There must have been a mistake, it must have been meant for you.
But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “It was very indiscreet of him. He shouldn’t have done that, considering Richard. But he didn’t have any family, and we’d been lovers, you see—in secret, for quite a long time—and who else did he have?”

Laura said nothing. She only looked at me. She looked right through me. Lord knows what she saw. A sinking ship, a city in flames, a knife in the back. I recognized the look, however: it was the look she’d had that day she’d almost drowned in the Louveteau River, just as she was going under—terrified, cold, rapturous. Gleaming like steel.

After a moment she stood up, reached across the table, and picked up my purse, quickly and almost delicately, as if it contained something fragile. Then she turned and walked out of the restaurant. I didn’t move to stop her. I was taken by surprise, and by the time I myself was out of my chair, Laura was gone.

There was some confusion about paying the bill—I had no money other than what had been in the purse, which my sister—I explained—had taken by mistake. I promised reimbursement the next day. After I’d got that settled, I almost ran to where I’d parked the car. It was gone. The car keys too had been in my purse. I hadn’t been aware that Laura had learned how to drive.

I walked for several blocks, concocting stories. I couldn’t tell Richard and Winifred what had really happened to my car: it would be used as one more piece of evidence against Laura. I’d say instead that I’d had a breakdown and the car had been towed to a garage, and they’d called a taxi for me, and I’d got into it and been driven all the way home before I’d realized I’d left my purse in the car by mistake. Nothing to worry about, I’d say. It would all be set straight in the morning.

Then I really did call a taxi. Mrs. Murgatroyd would be at the house to let me in, and to pay the taxi for me.

Richard wasn’t home for dinner. He was at some club or other, eating a foul dinner, making a speech. He was running hard by now, he had the goal in sight. This goal—I now know—was not just wealth or power. What he wanted was respect—respect, despite his new money. He longed for it, he thirsted for it; he wished to wield respect, not only like a hammer but like a sceptre. Such desires are not in themselves despicable.

This particular club was for men only; otherwise I would have been there, Sitting in the background, smiling, applauding at the end. On such occasions I would give Aimee’s nanny the night off and undertake bedtime myself. I supervised Aimee’s bath, read to her, then tucked her in. On that particular night she was unusually slow in going to sleep: she must have known I was worried about something. I sat beside her, holding her hand and stroking her forehead and looking out the window, until she dozed off.

Where had Laura gone, where was she staying, what had she done with my car? How could I reach her, what could I say to put things right?

A June bug was blundering against the window, drawn by the light. It bumped over the glass like a blind thumb. It sounded angry, and thwarted, and also helpless.

Escarpment

Today my brain dealt me a sudden blank; a whiteout, as if by snow. It wasn’t someone’s name that disappeared—in any case that’s usual—but a word, which turned itself upside down and emptied itself of meaning like a cardboard cup blown over.

This word was
escarpment.
Why had it presented itself?
Escarpment, escarpment,
I repeated, possibly out loud, but no image appeared to me. Was it an object, an activity, a state of mind, a bodily defect?

Nothing. Vertigo. I tottered on the brink, grabbed at air. In the end I resorted to the dictionary.
Escarpment,
a vertical fortification, or else a steep cliff-face.

In the beginning was the word, we once believed. Did God know what a flimsy thing the word might be? How tenuous, how casually erased?

Perhaps this is what happened to Laura—pushed her quite literally over the edge. The words she had relied on, building her house of cards on them, believing them solid, had flipped over and shown her their hollow centres, and then skittered away from her like so much waste paper.

God. Trust. Sacrifice. Justice.

Faith. Hope. Love.

Not to mention
sister.
Well, yes. There’s always that.

The morning after my tea with Laura at Diana Sweets, I hovered near the telephone. The hours passed: no word. I had a luncheon date, with Winifred and two of her committee members, at the Arcadian Court. It was always better with Winifred to stick to agreed plans—otherwise she got curious—and so I went.

We were told about Winifred’s latest venture, a cabaret in aid of wounded servicemen. There would be singing and dancing, and some of the girls were putting on a can-can routine, so we must all roll up our sleeves and pitch in, and sell tickets. Would Winifred herself be kicking up her heels in a ruffled petticoat and black stockings? I sincerely hoped not. By now she was on the wrong side of scraggy.

“You’re looking a bit wan, Iris,” said Winifred, her head on one side.

“Am I?” I said pleasantly. She’d been telling me lately I wasn’t up to par. What she meant was that I was not doing all I could to prop up Richard, to propel him forward along his path to glory.

“Yes, a bit faded. Richard wearing you out? That man has energy to burn!” She was in high good spirits. Her plans—her plans for Richard—must have been going well, despite my laxness.

But I could not pay much attention to her; I was too anxious about Laura. What would I do if she didn’t turn up soon? I could scarcely report that my car had been stolen: I didn’t want her to be arrested. Richard wouldn’t have wanted that either. It was in nobody’s interests.

I returned home, to be told by Mrs. Murgatroyd that Laura had been there during my absence. She hadn’t even rung the doorbell—Mrs. Murgatroyd had just happened to run across her in the front hall. It was a jolt, to see Miss Laura in the flesh after all these years, it was like seeing a ghost. No, she hadn’t left any address. She’d said something, though.
Tell Iris I’ll talk to her later.
Something like that. She’d left the house keys on the letter tray; said she’d taken them by mistake. A funny thing to take by mistake, said Mrs. Murgatroyd, whose pug nose smelled a fish. She no longer believed my story about the garage.

I was relieved: all might yet be well. Laura was still in town. She would talk to me later.

She has, too, though she tends to repeat herself, as the dead have a habit of doing. They say all the things they said to you in life; but they rarely say anything new.

I was changing out of my luncheon outfit when the policeman arrived, with news of the accident. Laura had gone through a Danger barrier, then right off the St. Clair Avenue bridge into the ravine far below. It was a terrible smash-up, said the policeman, shaking his head sadly. She’d been driving my car: they’d traced the licence. At first they’d thought—naturally—that I myself must be the burned woman found in the wreck.

Now that would have been news.

After the policeman had left I tried to stop shaking. I needed to keep calm, I needed to pull myself together.
You’ll have to face the music,
Reenie used to say, but what kind of music did she have in mind? It wasn’t dance music. A harsh brass band, a parade of some kind, with crowds of people on both sides, pointing and jeering. An executioner at the end of the road, with energy to burn.

There would of course be a cross-examination from Richard. My story about the car and the garage would still hold if I added that I’d seen Laura for tea that day, but hadn’t told him because I hadn’t wanted to upset him unnecessarily just before a crucial speech. (All his speeches were crucial, now; he was approaching the brass ring.)

Laura had been in the car when it had broken down, I’d say; she’d accompanied me to the garage. When I’d left my purse behind, she must have picked it up, and then it would have been child’s play for her to go the next morning and reclaim the car, paying for it with a forged cheque from my chequebook. I’d tear out a cheque, for verisimilitude; if pressed for the name of the garage, I’d say I’d forgotten. If pressed further, I’d cry. How could I be expected to remember a trivial detail like that, I’d say, at a time like this?

I went upstairs to change. To visit the morgue I would need a pair of gloves, and a hat with a veil. There might be reporters, photographers, already. I’d drive down, I thought, and then remembered that my car was now scrap. I would have to call a taxi.

Also I ought to warn Richard, at his office: As soon as the word got out, the corpse flies would besiege him. He was too prominent for things to be otherwise. He would wish to have a statement of grief prepared.

I made the phone call. Richard’s latest young secretary answered. I told her the matter was urgent, and that no, it could not be communicated through her. I would have to speak with Richard in person.

There was a pause while Richard was located. “What is it?” he said. He never appreciated being phoned at the office.

“There’s been a terrible accident,” I said. “It’s Laura. The car she was driving went off a bridge.”

He said nothing.

“It was my car.”

He said nothing.

“I’m afraid she’s dead,” I said.

“My God.” A pause. “Where has she been all this time? When did she get back? What was she doing in your car?”

“I thought you needed to know at once, before the papers get hold of it,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “That was wise.”

“Now I have to go down to the morgue.”

“The morgue?” he said. “The city morgue? What the hell for?”

“It’s where they’ve put her.”

“Well, get her out of there,” he said. “Take her somewhere decent. Somewhere more…”

“Private,” I said. “Yes, I’ll do that. I should tell you there’s been some implication—from the police, one of them was just here—some suggestion…”

“What? What did you tell them? What suggestion?” He sounded quite alarmed.

“Only that she did it on purpose.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “It must have been an accident. I hope you said that.”

“Of course. But there were witnesses. They saw…”

“Was there a note? If there was, burn it.”

“Two of them, a lawyer and something in a bank. She had white gloves on. They saw her turn the wheel.”

“Trick of the light,” he said. “Or else they were drunk. I’ll call the lawyer. I’ll handle it.”

I set down the telephone. I went into my dressing room: I would need black, and a handkerchief. I’ll have to tell Aimee, I thought. I’ll say it was the bridge. I’ll say the bridge broke.

I opened the drawer where I kept my stockings, and there were the notebooks—five of them, cheap school exercise books from our time with Mr. Erskine, tied together with kitchen string. Laura’s name was printed on the top cover, in pencil—her childish lettering. Underneath that:
Mathematics.
Laura hated mathematics.

Old schoolwork, I thought. No: old homework. Why had she left me these?

I could have stopped there. I could have chosen ignorance, but I did what you would have done—what you’ve already done, if you’ve read this far. I chose knowledge instead.

Most of us will. We’ll choose knowledge no matter what, we’ll maim ourselves in the process, we’ll stick our hands into the flames for it if necessary. Curiosity is not our only motive: love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on. We’ll spy relentlessly on the dead: we’ll open their letters, we’ll read their journals, we’ll go through their trash, hoping for a hint, a final word, an explanation, from those who have deserted us—who’ve left us holding the bag, which is often a good deal emptier than we’d supposed.

But what about those who plant such clues, for us to stumble on? Why do they bother? Egotism? Pity? Revenge? A simple claim to existence, like scribbling your initials on a washroom wall? The combination of presence and anonymity—confession without penance, truth without consequences—it has its attractions. Getting the blood off your hands, one way or another.

Those who leave such evidence can scarcely complain if strangers come along afterwards and poke their noses into every single thing that would once have been none of their business. And not only strangers: lovers, friends, relations. We’re voyeurs, all of us. Why should we assume that anything in the past is ours for the taking, simply because we’ve found it? We’re all grave robbers, once we open the doors locked by others.

But only locked. The rooms and their contents have been left intact. If those leaving them had wanted oblivion, there was always fire.